


FBI Academy

by SeeEmRunning



Category: Criminal Minds, Quantico (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7910617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeEmRunning/pseuds/SeeEmRunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester and Spencer Reid are at the Academy with the NATs from Quantico. Some things are inevitable, but some things can be changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much an excuse to throw some of my favorite characters together and see what happens. Posting as a WIP because I haven't finished S1 of Quantico yet. Also, I changed Sam's and Spencer's birthdays to get them to be the right age. The plan is to have each chapter be an episode, but we'll see if that works out.

In the classroom, Miranda Shaw, Assistant Director of the FBI and head of Quantico’s FBI Academy, stood in front of them. “The state of this country,” she said, "is the most precarious it has ever been. Not only are there more threats than ever before, but the majority of those threats don't come from known organizations or extremist groups, but our own backyard: a neighbor you grew up next to, a one-night stand you had, perhaps even a family member. You applied here to protect your country from those threats. And while your ideals and your test scores might have gotten you here, they will not be enough to keep you here. The FBI Academy is the toughest boot camp and hardest grad school rolled into one. It is not college. It is life and death.

“Only those New Agent Trainees, or NATs, who meet Bureau standards graduate. You'll receive temporary credentials, uniforms, and a red-handled gun. Always wear the uniform, always have your credentials, always carry the red-handle. That way, you're identifiable to us as a New Agent Trainee, or NAT, and not visiting law enforcement, a D.E.A. trainee, or a neighboring marine.

“Liam O’Connor is the head of instruction here at the Academy. He’ll lead you on your tour.”

O’Connor took them first to the firing range. “Guns can be rented for target practice,” he said. “Leave your red-handle, get a gun. Return the gun, recover your red-handle.”

He showed them the cafeteria, gym, and weight room before returning them to their dorms. “Get acquainted with your roommates,” he said. “You’ll be living together for months, so get along. Class is at thirteen-hundred. Don’t be late.”

Sam Campbell made his bed with military precision. Some habits were hard to break.

Spencer Reid, coming in with three PhDs already, made his bed neatly. He hated mess.

“So,” Sam said, breaking the silence. “I’m Sam.”

“Spencer,” he said.

“No offense, but you look a little young to be here.”

“I’m twenty,” he said.

Sam cocked his head. “Thought you had to be twenty-three.”

Spencer shrugged. “They recruited me, so I guess they don’t care.”

Sam nodded. “Fair enough. Where you from?”

“Las Vegas. You?”

“I’ve been there a couple times,” Sam said, ignoring the question. “Is it better if you live there, or worse?”

“Stay off the Strip and it’s not too bad,” Spencer said. “The real tourist-y area is worth seeing once.”

“And only once, right?” Sam joked.

Spencer laughed. “Pretty much.”

“So why’d they recruit you?” Sam asked.

“I have two PhDs and an eidetic memory,” he said. “I suppose they figured I could do some good here.”

Sam nodded. “I’d believe it. You done unpacking?”

“Not even close,” he said. “You?”

Sam held up an empty duffel. “I travel light.”

“We’re going to be here for six months.”

“I know. I’ll let you get back to unpacking.”

Spencer ate a patty melt for lunch. Sam didn’t eat at all, but they met up back in the classroom and sat next to each other.

O’Connor stood in front of the room, behind a table with 60-odd files. “Inside these folders is every piece of information the FBI gathered on you during your application process with one item redacted. If intelligence is the CIA’s game, investigation is ours. Someone’s identity is stolen, a serial killer strikes, a bomb goes off - even if there are no leads, there are always clues. The smallest detail can make a big difference. So you are going to pick a fellow trainee and figure out what’s been redacted in the next twenty-four hours, or you’re out. Godspeed.”

All of the NATs rushed the table. Sam grabbed Spencer’s file; Spencer grabbed Sam’s. They escaped to their seats.

“Don’t suppose you could just tell me?” Sam asked Spencer.

Spencer smirked. “Not a chance.”

“Okay, then,” Sam said.

“Listen up,” O’Connor called. “Inside those folders is the schedule. If you look, you’ll see you have firearms next. Go.”

They tucked their folders into their packs and went. Sam took the rental gun - a Glock 19 - and slid it into his holster. He felt better with an actual weapon on him that wasn’t just a knife in his boot.

Spencer turned to Sam, barrel facing out. Sam grabbed it and pointed it at the floor. “Never point a gun at somebody unless you’re going to shoot,” he said. “Treat every weapon like it’s loaded.”

“Okay,” Spencer said, putting it in his holster.

Once everyone had gotten their guns, they trooped onto the shooting range. “Listen up,” the firearms instructor called. “I’m Agent Steven Gonzales. Today we’re going to be seeing if you can aim worth a damn. Once we’ve gone through handguns, we’ve got some rifles for you. Split into groups of - there are sixty-five of you? Groups of thirteen, then.” They split up. He went over the basic safety rules, how to hold, and how to stand before saying, “This group first,” and motioning to the group containing Parrish, Booth, and Wyatt.

“Wyatt’s good,” someone said halfway through the round.

“She made a name hunting with her dad,” someone else answered.

“Next!” Gonzales barked.

Sam hit the T every time. Spencer clipped the edge of the target three times and hit the arm once.

“Reid, you need some work,” Gonzales said. “Campbell, good job.”

“I can help you, if you’d like,” Sam told him when the next group stepped up.

“I’d like that, thanks,” Spencer said.

Sam pulled out Spencer’s folder and opened it up. “Spencer Damascus Reid, born October 12, 1996 to Diana and William Reid,” he said out loud.

Spencer glared and opened Sam’s. “Samuel Luke Campbell, born May 2, 1991 to John and Mary Winchester.”

“Permanent address: 3900 Soundview Drive, Triangle, Virginia, 22172.”

“Permanent address: 1 Church Road, Blue Earth, Minnesota, 56013.”

“You’re both pretty,” Simon Asher said. “Come on, they’re switching to rifles already.”

Firearms took up all their time until dinner, and then they reported to the gym for PT evaluations. Sam and Spencer both took the opportunity to read each other’s files and make notes on what the other’s secret might be. Both noticed that the other had a non-family member listed as emergency contact.

Spencer did pretty damn badly. Sam did better than most of the others, but saved his best for later. He’d learned in college that evaluations were measured against each other, and if he did his best now he’d have to do better when they redid them. It was easier to just do well, but not great.

They were released at nine. They trooped back to their dorms to shower and sleep.

“Sam?” Spencer said timidly.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think that you could help me with PT, too?”

“Of course,” he said. “We’ll get up early tomorrow and hit the gym.”

“How early is early?”

“Six-ish?”

“Okay,” Spencer said, setting his alarm clock.

They were in the gym by 6:15. Sam set Spencer to wall push-ups; he couldn’t do very many regular push-ups, and doing them on the wall meant he could do more without hurting himself. It would build up his arm strength. Then came sit-ups. Then leg lifts. Sam did them all with him.

They reported for their morning run just in time. Agent Hector Fiat led them on a jog through the woods, and then sent them on to breakfast. Sam ate fast, then snuck away and called Spencer’s emergency contact.

“Hi, I’m calling about Spencer Reid.”

“Is he all right?” There was no mistaking the anxiety in the man’s voice.

“Yes, he’s fine,” Sam said. “My name’s Sam Campbell. I’m at the FBI Academy over in Quantico, and I was just hoping to have a few minutes of your time.”

“Of- of course.”

“Thank you. How do you know Mr. Reid?”

“It’s Doctor Reid, really. I was his advisor for his last PhD, and we got to know each other pretty well.”

“Well enough for you to be his emergency contact?” Sam probed.

“Yeah, I guess so.” The man chuckled nervously.

“Can I ask what happened to his parents?”

“Uh, his dad took off when Spencer was...nine, I think? Or ten? And his mother’s institutionalized.”

Sam’s mouth went dry. “Institutionalized?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Paranoid schizophrenia.”

“I see. Have you seen him exhibit any worrying behaviors?”

The man chuckled. “He’s not schizophrenic, if that’s your question.”

“Oh, it’s not,” Sam said hastily. “I just like to have an idea of who the trainees are.”

“Hmph. Well, I’m sorry, but I have class in ten minutes, so I have to go.”

“Of course. Thank you for your help, and have a good day.”

_That was easy,_ he thought as he headed to the gym for defensive tactics.

“Fight,” Pete Fairman told them. “I want to see what you can do. Try to match weight class.”

Spencer glanced around and ended up working with Nimah Amin. Sam faced off against Ryan Booth. They sparred for an hour before Fairman called a halt. He called up Shelby Wyatt and demonstrated a hold, and then how to get out of that hold by throwing the holder over the captive’s shoulder. They worked on that for another half-hour, and then on blocking. Fairman called a halt around eleven and sent them to shower before lunch.

Spencer snuck away during lunch to call Sam’s emergency contact. A man picked up: “This is Pastor Jim Murphy at Blue Earth Presbyterian.”

“Hi, Pastor Murphy,” Spencer said. “My name’s Dr. Spencer Reid. I’m calling from the FBI Academy, in Quantico, Virginia-”

“Is Sam all right?” Murphy interrupted.

“Yes, yes, he’s fine. I’m calling because I’m in training with him, and we’re supposed to find what was left out of our files.”

“And?” Murphy asked after a moment of silence.

“I was wondering why Sam’s emergency contact is a church instead of a family member.”

“Son,” he said, “talk to Sam. It’s not my story to tell.”

“But I need-”

“To talk to Sam,” Murphy said again. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the church. Have a good day.”

“Yeah,” Spencer said glumly, “you too.”

After lunch came classroom time. O’Connor stood in front of the room and said, “The investigation is over. Now it's time to move on to the interview. Each of you has a fact you've found, a piece of information you believe to be true, but you need confirmation from your suspect. Investigation and interview are the bread and butter of the FBI, and if you can't excel at both, you'll never make it through. And while in the real world, a polygraph might be inadmissible in a court of law, I find it a great tool to learn by. Stick to "yes" or "no" questions, and let's see how far you get. Who’s up first?”

Simon and Shelby went in. “Sir,” someone asked, “what’s the retina camera for?”

“Eye movement and dilation are often dead giveaways,” O’Connor said. He pressed the microphone. “Simon, you can begin.”

Simon started by asking her about her family. He caught her in a lie about being an only child, and she admitted she had a half-sister who was ten years older. Her parents were killed in a hijacking on 9/11, and that was her secret. 

Nimah went in, and Simon was hooked up to the polygraph. Nimah teased him for a bit about being gay, and then said, “Simon Asher, you are a Conservative Jew from a staunch Zionist family, yet four years ago, you traveled to Gaza to live with the Palestinians, and to this day, you never told anyone.”

Ryan and Alex went in next. Alex waved off the polygraph, saying he didn’t need it, and O’Connor said, “That’s good. He’s making her feel like she can trust him.”

“I know your secret,” Ryan said. “You can tell, or I can. It’s up to you.”

Alex visibly hesitated, and then said, “I was nine. My father came home drunk. He stuck a gun in my mother’s face. They wrestled. She got the gun and shot him in the head.”

“So your mother shot him in self-defense?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

O’Connor hit the button. “You can stop now, Ryan.”

“That was emotional,” Caleb Haas said. “But her secret’s got nothing on Eric’s. SA O’Connor, can we go next?”

“Sure,” O’Connor said. “Alex, Ryan, come out.”

Eric and Caleb showed up on the video feed a few moments later. “Packer,” Caleb said, “you’re going down. Elder Eric, I know your secret. Come on in. You ready to come clean, Elder Eric?”

Eric pulled his gun from his holster and shot the woman manning the polygraph machine. Half the class, including Sam, followed O’Connor as he ran out; Spencer remained glued to his seat, watching in horror as Eric shoved a cabinet in front of the door.

“Put the gun down!” Caleb said.

“You won’t tell,” Eric said. “I won’t let you.”

“Eric, put it down.”

“Open the door!” O’Connor yelled, jiggling the handle.

Sam knelt down and grabbed his knife from the boot. He elbowed O’Connor aside, flipped the knife around, and slammed the base into the window two-thirds of the way up. It shattered.

“Eric,” he said.

“Why’d you have to go looking, man?” Eric asked. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?”

“I was bluffing, all right? I didn’t find anything!” Caleb said. “I looked. I did. But I didn’t find anything.”

“I don’t believe you!” Eric shouted.

“Eric,” O’Connor said. “Eric, open the door.”

“I didn’t find anything! I thought if I pretended to find something, and riled you up, you’d let something slip.”

“You’re lying.”

“O’Connor,” Sam muttered. “I can throw the knife and hit him. Do you want me to?”

O’Connor blinked. “You can throw knives?”

Sam nodded. “Do you want me to?” he repeated.

“Can you avoid killing him?”

“Yes. Well, probably,” Sam amended.

“Eric, just give me the gun,” Caleb begged.

“No! No, you’ll tell everybody!”

“Do it,” O’Connor said.

Sam lined it up and threw. It embedded itself deep in Eric’s arm. Eric screamed, dropped the gun, and grabbed his shoulder. Caleb grabbed it up.

“Caleb!” O’Connor said. “Caleb, open the door!”

“No!” Eric was sobbing. “No, you’ll - you’ll tell everyone-”

Caleb shoved the desk out of the way. O’Connor opened the door and ran over to Eric. Caleb was still holding the gun, pointed at the floor, staring at the scene like he couldn’t believe that had happened.

“Caleb,” Sam said gently. “Can I have the gun?”

Caleb was shaking like he hadn’t even heard Sam. Sam reached down and gently pried the gun from his hands, then flicked on the safety, ejected the clip, and emptied the chamber. O’Connor was on the phone, barking orders, getting an ambulance and other help, checking for a pulse on the woman who’d been shot. Sam put the gun on the desk and said, “Show’s over, people. Back to the classroom, go on.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Come on, guys, let’s go.” He started shepherding them back.

Caleb stayed where he was, still shaking. Sam put a careful hand on his shoulder. “Caleb?” he asked.

Caleb burst into tears and fell forward, burying his head in Sam’s chest. Sam wrapped his arms around him, letting him freak out, and pulled him back around the corner so that it wasn’t being broadcast to the rest of their class. “You’re okay,” he muttered into his hair.

People ran by carrying first-aid kits and backboards. Sam tugged Caleb down the hallway and almost had him in the bathroom when a tall blond man yelled, “Caleb!”

“Dad?” Caleb said, pulling away from Sam.

“Are you all right?” he asked, grabbing Caleb’s shoulders and looking at him critically.

“Yeah,” Caleb said. “Yeah, Dad, I’m fine.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad.” He glanced over at Sam. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. Executive Assistant Director Clayton Haas.”

“Sam Campbell,” he said, holding out a hand.

Haas took it. “Ah, yes. I remember your file. You taken your turn with the polygraph yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then. I won’t spoil the surprise.” He smiled briefly and glanced over Sam’s shoulder.

Sam took the hint. “Good meeting you, sir. See you, Caleb.”

“Thanks,” Caleb said, not meeting Sam’s eyes.

“Don’t mention it,” Sam said, and headed back to the classroom.

There were agents there, agents who weren’t part of their training, some of whom were messing with the computer and some of whom were interviewing the trainees. Spencer had just finished telling one of them, an Agent Morgan, what had happened when Sam walked back in, looking exhausted.

“Sam!” he called, running over. “Are you okay?”

Sam smiled wanly. “I’m fine, Spencer. Is this the part where we give our statements?”

“It is,” one of the agents said. “Have a seat and wait for us to call you. Reid, you can leave.”

“I’ll talk to you later, all right?” Spencer said as he left.

Sam gave his statement. He’d done that before; the main difference was that this time, he didn’t have to talk around what happened to avoid getting arrested. He could be straightforward and factual.

Shaw called him to her office the moment he was done. “Have a seat, Sam,” she said. When he’d settled in the chair next to O’Connor, she said, “I understand you had an exciting part to play this afternoon.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“This is what we call a debrief,” Shaw said. “Walk us through what happened, in your own words.”

“I just gave my statement,” Sam said.

“Statements are different,” Shaw said. “Statements are only fact. Debriefs are everything - emotions, reactions, justifications. Talk us through.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “We were sitting in class. Eric and Caleb walked into the room. Eric shot the woman and pushed a desk in front of the door. About half of us ran for the room, and the other half stayed behind. When we reached the room, O’Connor started telling Eric to open the door. I used my boot knife to break the window and asked if I should throw the knife. O’Connor asked if I could hit him without killing him, and I said yes. He told me to throw. I hit Eric’s shoulder. Caleb pushed the desk out of the way. Booth led the rest of the NATs back to the classroom. O’Connor started checking on Eric and the woman who’d been shot. I took Caleb into the hallway to calm down. EAD Haas showed up and I returned to the classroom.”

“Why did you come to the interview room?”

Sam thought. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “Instinct, I suppose. I’ve been running towards danger since I was a kid. If I can help, I’m going to try.”

“Why did you break the window?”

“I figured if there wasn’t glass in the way, I could throw or O’Connor could shoot.”

“Why his shoulder?”

“It was the best place to neutralize him without killing him.”

“Why did you take Caleb into the hallway rather than check on Eric or Agent Maldi?”

“Maldi was shot in the head,” Sam said. “I can’t do anything to help a head shot. And I knew O’Connor would be checking Eric. Caleb was getting hysterical, and that’s something I _can_ deal with.”

Shaw and O’Connor exchanged glances. “Do you need to talk to someone?” Shaw asked. “You hurt someone today.”

“Ma’am,” Sam said, “no offense, but I’ve seen worse.” He swallowed and made himself say, “I’ve _done_ worse, and you both know it. I would have done a lot more if I’d had to.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need to talk,” O’Connor said. “It’s not weak to need help.”

“I don’t,” Sam said.

Shaw sighed. “Then you’re dismissed. Sleep well. And spread the word we’re continuing with the interrogation exercise tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes, ma’am. Good night.” He hesitated. “Um, do you know what he was so desperate to hide?”

“Yes,” Shaw said. “He’s going to be doing quite a bit of time in a mental health facility. Good night, Sam.”

He knew a dismissal when he heard one. He left.

Spencer, meanwhile, was using his reprieve to try to figure out Sam’s secret. He hadn’t made the 24-hour deadline, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone. He opened his laptop - he hated the damn thing, but he needed it to type papers - and asked Google for any information on Sam Campbell.

Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn accounts dominated the first few pages. Spencer deleted the search term and tried “Blue Earth MN public records”, and used that page to search for Samuel Campbell.

Bingo: Samuel Campbell had changed his name from Samuel Winchester on May 2, 2009. The listed reason was to honor his mother’s family. Spencer plugged “Mary Campbell John Winchester Lawrence KS” into Google and got an article about a house fire. “John Winchester” on its own sent him to a list of America’s most wanted - John was number 17 on the list. Spencer read about his alleged crimes, most related to vigilantism but with a few child abuse and neglect allegations, with growing excitement. He’d figured out Sam’s secret.

Then he paused. His roommate had grown up with this man. He’d been raised to be a vigilante just like John had been. His brother was, presumably, still with his father. Sam’s emergency contact was a pastor. That wasn’t something to be excited about; that was something to be sorry for. His mother had done her best, even if her best wasn’t as good as others’, but Sam’s dad had abused and neglected him.

Sam himself came in just then, looking even more exhausted than he had in the classroom. His eyes shot to Spencer’s computer, and he belatedly realized he should close the tab.

“Figured it out, then?” Sam asked.

“Uh, think so,” Spencer said.

“Good. O’Connor said we were gonna keep going tomorrow. I’m gonna shower. Night.”

“Night.”

Sam woke him early again the next morning and led him to the gym. He showed Spencer a few defensive moves and drilled him on them until he could mimic them passably, then did wall push-ups with him until it was time for their morning run with the rest of their class. They ate breakfast and went through PT, DT, and the shooting range in silence. Their classmates muttered about Sam’s knife-throwing skills all morning. After lunch, they returned to the classroom.

O’Connor stood in front of the room. “We’re going to continue with interrogation,” he said. “Yes, even after yesterday. In the field, people will die, people will point guns at you, people will go nuts. It happens. You have to keep going. Who’d like to go first?”

Natalie and John volunteered, then Maria and Hank, and it went on and on until finally O’Connor said, “Spencer, Sam, you’re the only two who haven’t gone.” 

They left and went to an interrogation room - a different one than they’d been in yesterday. A man strapped Spencer into the polygraph and set up the retina camera. Sam waited for him to be done before he settled across the table and said, “So, Spencer. You grew up in Las Vegas, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Your father’s name is William and your mother’s name is Diana, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Your father registered a change of address with the DMV in 2005. You were eight years old. Your mother’s address remained the same until October of 2014. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No.”

“So you’re an only child. Did you live with your mother, growing up?”

“Yes.”

“On your eighteenth birthday, your mother was checked into a mental institution, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did she wait until you were eighteen to check herself in? Or did you check her in against her will?”

“Rephrase,” crackled over the intercom. “Yes or no questions only.”

“Sorry. Did your mother choose to be institutionalized?”

"No."

"Did you institutionalize your mother against her will?" 

“Yes.”

“That’s it,” came over the intercom. “Good job, Sam. Switch.”

Sam and Spencer switched places.

“Sam,” Spencer said. “You were born in May of 1991, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Are your parents’ names John and Mary?”

“Yes.”

“Are they still alive?”

“I think my dad is.”

“Your mother died in a house fire when you were six months old, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“A brother. Dean.”

“Is he younger?”

“No. Older.”

“Did you move around a lot when you were growing up?”

“Yes.”

“Yesterday was very impressive, Sam. You took out an armed man with only a knife.”

“Is there a question in there?”

“Did your father teach you how to do that?”

“Yes.”

“Did your father teach you to fight?”

“Yes.”

“While teaching you to fight, did your father give you three broken arms, two broken legs, seventeen broken ribs, and six concussions?”

“They weren’t all him,” Sam said.

“Are you aware that your dad is number seventeen on the FBI’s most wanted list?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Impressive. When I left he was only eighty-six.”

“You left when you were eighteen?”

“A couple months earlier.”

“And you sought shelter at a church in Minnesota.”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t worried your family would catch up to you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The intercom crackled to life. “Yes or no questions only, Spencer.”

“Sorry. Um…your father has an impressive record. Law enforcement thinks he’s a vigilante. Is he?”

“Yes.”

“Did he raise you to be a vigilante?”

“Yes.”

Spencer waited a beat. When the intercom didn’t come on, he said, “All right...um...what’s your last name?”

“Campbell.”

“Is that your real last name?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the last name you were born with?”

“No.”

“Your birth name is Winchester, correct?”

“Yes.”

The intercom came on. “There it is,” O’Connor crackled. “Good job, Spencer.”

“Are you serious?” Sam said. “All it was was the name change?”

“I didn’t need to go through the whole vigilante thing?” Spencer added.

“No,” O’Connor said. “Although that wasn’t in the file, either. Come on back to the classroom and we’ll finish up.”

Shaw was waiting for them. As soon as Sam and Spencer took their seats, she said, “I hope you all learned something other than interrogation techniques. What happened yesterday was tragic - it was awful. I have no doubt Eric Packer could have offered us so much, but he couldn’t face the truth about himself. If you cannot be honest with yourself, how can you get the truth out of anyone else? And the scariest part about all of this is that it only gets harder from here. So tonight, please, please, think about what you want for your life, for your future. More than that, think about who you are and why you're here. Thank you. You’re all dismissed. We’ll see you on Monday.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through Quantico s1e2, 'America'. Sam and Spencer spend some time at the range before the NATs are given an assignment to figure out which of three terrorist plots is real.

Sam and Spencer went out to the range the very next day. Sam turned in his red-handle, but when Tom went to give him a Glock, he said, “Uh, actually, can we use the rifles today?”

“Why rifles?” Spencer asked.

“Because there’s less recoil and it’s easier to aim,” Sam said.

Tom smiled. “Starting with the basics, huh?”

“Yep.” Sam smiled back and took the rifle. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.” He exchanged Spencer’s red-handle for a rifle. “How long you boys think you’ll be out there?”

“Couple hours, probably,” Sam said.

“Range officer today’s running qualifiers, so it’s busy. If you need something, it might be faster to come in and ask.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Sam said.

“Course. Go on out.”

There were tables set up at the back of the range. Sam stopped there and said, “All right, let’s start with the gun. This is a Mossberg 702. The stock is synthetic and the trigger guard is an aluminum alloy. Semiautomatic, crossbolt safety, .22 caliber, one-in-sixteen right-hand twist over an eighteen-inch barrel. Got all that?” Spencer nodded. “What does one-in-sixteen right-hand twist mean?”

“The groove inside the barrel makes one complete revolution in sixteen inches. If you put your right thumb facing to the stock, the twist is in the direction your fingers curl.”

Sam nodded. “Good. Why does that matter?”

“It affects accuracy and ballistics information.”

“Right. The metal’s been blued, so it’s more durable than non-blued guns. What does it mean to blue a gun?”

“Oxidize the metal to prevent rusting.”

“Where’s the safety?”

“Uh, here.” Spencer tapped it.

“Yep. Load the magazine.”

Spencer had a bit of trouble with that. Sam wasn’t surprised - it took some practice to get good at it, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Spencer had never even seen a gun in real life before he’d gotten to Quantico. A few minutes later, the magazine was loaded and placed.

“All right,” Sam said. “Go ahead and fire.”

Spencer stood at the line, hands awkwardly placed. Sam put them in the right spot and stood back.

“This feels weird,” Spencer objected.

“Yeah, but it’s way more accurate and you’re less likely to get your hands caught. Try firing a few times. Just sight down the barrel and pull the trigger.”

Spencer emptied the clip. “That does work better.”

“You see? More control. Let’s get another round in before the whistle to check, okay?” Sam picked up his own rifle and shot all ten. He and Spencer reloaded the clips before the officer blew his whistle. Sam and Spencer went down to check their accuracy.

“I actually hit it!” Spencer said, excited. All twenty rounds had hit the paper, and seven had made it inside the outline. Two were center-mass.

“Good job!” Sam said. “Let’s put up new targets and try again.”

“You hit the T every time,” Spencer said.

“Yeah, well, years of practice,” Sam said with a shrug. “You’ll get there.”

They went three more rounds with the rifle, Spencer getting more precise each time, before the range officer came over.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, Agent Fairman,” Sam said.

“Getting some practice in?”

“Yes, sir. Doing qualifiers?”

“Yeah.” Fairman rolled his eyes. “One of the Secret Service guys left his gun in his desk at the office.”

Sam chuckled. “So he rented one out?”

“Yeah. Don’t make that mistake when you get to that point.”

Spencer said excitedly, “I got the T!”

“Good job,” Sam said.

“Really good,” Fairman said. “Working with rifles for accuracy?”

“Yep.”

“Hmm. Oh, there’s my next guy. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Have a good one.”

At twelve-thirty, Sam said, “All right, I think that’s enough shooting for today. How do you feel about hitting the gym for a while?”

“Sure.”  
***  
Monday rolled around, bringing classes with it. Caleb was still missing, and the rumor mill had it he’d been kicked out after the Eric debacle. The remaining trainees disassembled and reassembled Glock 19s, did PT, sparred, talked about arrest procedures. Tuesday was much the same. On Wednesday, O’Connor brought in the analyst team - including Caleb Haas.

Then he led them to a warehouse. “How do we begin to figure out when and where an attack may occur? We find evidence. Now, each site you see here is where a different real-life terrorist plot was hatched. Each site has been meticulously reconstructed with everything that was present when the FBI raided them. In each case, the attacks planned in these very rooms were foiled. As agents, you're going to need to be able to study scenes like this and separate evidence which is meaningful from that which is meaningless. So, divide yourself into three teams, and each team pick one room. There are clues in each, which point to credible threats threats that will come to fruition in six hours if you can't find out what they are and stop them. We've given you the haystacks. Let's see if you can find the needles.”

Sam and Spencer ended up working on the far-left room. “It’s a mess in here,” Spencer said.

Sam looked at the unmade bed, books spilling onto the floor, and overflowing laundry hamper and said, “You’re telling me. I’ll check the trash.”

“I got the computer,” Nimah said.

Spencer started pulling apart the bed. Sam dragged the trash out of the reconstructed room and started poking through it, smoothing out every crumpled piece of paper - and there were a lot. The guy who’d lived there had clearly been a fan of handwritten notes; there were Post-Its for dentist appointments, pages with birthdays on them, even a few false starts on a novel. Sam handed Nimah the page with computer passwords.

His hand hit the bottom, and he frowned. The can was taller than that, he was certain. He flipped it upside down to double-check.

“Got a false bottom in the trash can,” Sam called. He undid the latches holding it in place and lifted it. A long line of dates, place, and times greeted him.

“Give that to your analyst,” O’Connor said. “That’s what they’re for.”

Sam handed it to Elias. “Street names are DC, I think,” he said.

“Cool, thanks,” Elias said, already typing.

“Got something,” Nimah called. “Dude runs a blog dedicated to calling out corruption among politicians. His favorite target is Jonathan Mays, who has been a senator for thirty-seven years and keeps cutting EPA restrictions. His other bookmarks are all ELF websites.”

“Got a gun,” Spencer said, pulling it down from the top shelf of the closet.

“We thinking assassination attempt?”

“Probably,” Sam said. “Or he could just believe in his second amendment rights and is tired of politics.”

Elias walked over. “This is a list of places Senator Jonathan Mays has visited and is due to visit.

“Assassination attempt,” Nimah said triumphantly.

“Fifteen minutes left,” O’Connor called.

Spencer peered into the closet. “We don’t know where or when yet. Keep looking.”

Not long after, Brandon peeled up a corner of the carpet. “I got a plane ticket to Dulles dated for tomorrow,” he said. “Return flight is Saturday at six AM.”

“Where is Mays going to be tomorrow or Friday?” Sam asked Elias.

Elias ran back to the table and checked the list. “Nothing special’s listed, but the Senate is in session, so he should be there.”

“Time,” O’Connor called. “Back to the classroom, all of you.”

On his way out, Brandon flicked a framed poster. “Fan of the Kentucky Wildcats.”

Back in the classroom, O’Connor said, “Okay, far left, what did you find?”

“Our team's survivalist shack belongs to a rogue member of the E.L.F. His blog posts point to an assassination attempt on the senator on the Capitol Steps either tomorrow or Friday.”

The middle group had found evidence of a planned arson at a Planned Parenthood by a woman upset her daughter had had an abortion. The far right had gotten a hacker who was going to plant a bomb at Independence Hall.

O’Connor clicked a button, and a sketch of the building’s layout appeared on the screen. “Okay,” he said, and pointed locations as he named them. “Independence Hall, Capitol Steps, Planned Parenthood -oh, nope, nope, nope, nope. Not so fast. The people who had been getting ready to run froze. “Now you know where. The question becomes, when? People threaten this country every day. Not all of them follow through. As agents, you have to prioritize. You can't waste the Bureau's resources. Which of these threats, if any, are immediate? You have to decide before it's too late. And you have five minutes. Go.”

“Clearly it’s Independence Hall. Historical sites are the most targeted in this country.”

“It’s not the senator,” Spencer said. “There’s at least a day before that happens.”

“It’s Planned Parenthood. They’re battlegrounds.”

“Angry mom or mad bomber?”

“Mom.”

“Bomber.”

“It’s the bomber, I’m winnign this thing,” Simon said, jogging out.

“Wait!” Alex said. “What if none of them are?”

“That wasn’t an option,” Natalie snapped.

“He did say _if any_. I don’t think any of them are imminent. I have a feeling.”

Sam rolled his eyes. Intuition was well and good, but he’d rather play it safe. “I’m going for the bombing,” he announced. “Historical-site bombings happen more often than arson at Planned Parenthood.”

Sam hurried to the parking-lot Independence Hall, finding two of the instructors there. “Was it this one?” he asked.

“The bomber was still in the planning stages. You spooked him and he’s gone underground.”

Sam groaned and headed back to the classroom.

“Was it Planned Parenthood?” Sam asked Spencer when he walked in the door.

Spencer shook his head. “Angry mom venting online. So it wasn’t Independence Hall?”

“He was still planning, and he spooked and went underground. I guess it wasn’t any of them, after all.”

“You guess right,” O’Connor announced. “Information is only as good as the person giving it to you. You have to rely on your gut just as much as the evidence. Which means...everyone failed but Parrish. Dismissed.”

“Shit,” Sam muttered under his breath. “I hate failing.”


End file.
